


make the same mistakes, blame circumstance

by mangomilkshake



Category: Original Work, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Violence, F/F, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, give harper a hug challenge, no beta we die like todd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27655487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangomilkshake/pseuds/mangomilkshake
Summary: a brief study on harper’s relationship with touch.(characters from a tma au created by one of my friends)
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Kudos: 5





	make the same mistakes, blame circumstance

**Author's Note:**

> ty rae, sparrow, leo, beth, frankie, mori and lou for letting me steal your ocs for a lil bit! 
> 
> title is from xanny since it’s harpermarcia core xoxo

For a prickly person, Harper was awfully touchy. 

It was almost certainly subconscious, but if she noticed she didn’t mentally  
acknowledge it, let alone speak the thought aloud. 

Harper’s previous psychology teacher would probably chalk it up as a lack of attention given to her as a child. Harper herself would call it strategic flirting. Regardless, it was simply the way she operated, and it really wasn’t that difficult to notice once you knew what you were looking for. 

You could see it in the way that she threw her arm across Reagan’s shoulder lazily, eyes twinkling with mirth as she chuckled at her own joke. The briefest rub of her thumb against the back of the other woman’s frigid hands as they exchanged cigarettes.

And if Reagan noticed when Harper sat beside her- hands stained with crimson and her heart thudding from the adrenaline of the Hunt- and silently shuffled to lean her head on her shoulder to ground herself with something, anything, she didn’t say a single word. 

You could see it in the way that Harper brushed her fingers against Cassidy’s shoulder with a featherlight touch as she flirted liberally, face bright with thinly veiled amusement. A gentle pat to assure her she was joking, a teasing glance towards Reagan before boisterously leading the way out the door. 

Later, such mild contact was pushed aside in favour of sheer desperation as Harper gripped Cass’ hands like they were a life line, knuckles turning white. Cheeks wet with tears pushed against the soft fabric of the other woman’s blouse as she was pulled in for a fierce hug, and Harper stopped reaching out for touch, simply allowing Cassidy to hold her and hold her and _hold her._

The first time she touches Morgan, she is being tackled out a window of the institute. Rather unconventional, to say the least. 

When they fight, the contact is jarring. Her knuckles are bruised and her face is streaked with blood and she’s stumbling to avoid the vicious blows that just _keep coming-_ and all at once she misses the gentle touches and warm skin as if violence isn’t the only thing she’s ever known. She doesn’t have much time to dwell on the regret, though, because a moment later Morgan is sinking a blade into her chest, and Harper’s world is plunged into darkness. 

Which is why it pained her weeks later, as she sat on that bench beside the man who had hurt her, to crave contact so badly. She shrank in the seat, cold and tired and filled with an empty dread as Morgan gave her a grim ultimatum. It didn’t stop her from letting her fingertips linger against his hand as he passed her the journal, the contact burning her skin. Maybe they weren’t so different after all. 

After that ordeal, Harper needed a warm, stable touch that didn’t swallow her whole and bring her to the brink of sanity. 

Falling from a bookshelf wasn’t exactly ideal, but the steady touch of Marley’s hand helping her up _was_ a relief. A moment to breathe, after all the bloodshed, and for a blissful moment her mind was clear. An appreciative squeeze of the younger’s woman’s shoulder communicated more thanks than any words could have. 

A hand was planted firmly but reassuringly against the small of Marley’s back as they walked out of the room together. She’d quite like this one to stick around a little longer. 

For someone who easily gravitated towards people, Harper found that there were very few people who made her want nothing more than to get as far away as possible. 

Her mother was one of them. 

Jonah Magnus was another. 

Which was why she sat rigid in her seat, arms crossed stiffly over her chest as the man sported that signature smug smile. His voice cut cleanly through the air like broken glass, too sharp and too _knowing,_ and Harper flinched when the man wearing Julius’ skin leaned forward in his seat. 

She hated the way she could feel him hungrily probing through her mind for each weakness, she hated the way her fear was painfully evident beneath the witty shield she’d crafted so carefully to keep herself safe, she hated the insinuation that the two of them had more similarities than she’d thought. 

Maybe that was why for once in her life Harper kept her hands to herself, like the two of them were positive ends of a magnet repelling each other. 

She sat alone, repulsed by the thought of a cruel hand touching her skin, and the Eye drank it all in. 

Harper couldn’t help but be frustrated with Esther. 

She was tired, wary, hands drenched in the blood of the woman who sat opposite her, and still she tentatively reached out. Cautiously cupped her jaw, her cheek, her bruised ribs and methodically got to work cleaning the wounds as if they hadn’t just brawled in the middle of the institute. Chattering quietly to fill the silence that sank between them, replying to Esther’s cynicism with her own wry quips. 

When the inevitable question arose- _why was she doing this?-_ Harper found that she couldn’t quite answer. Water streaked with red swirled down the sink, the basin slick with crimson handprints as Esther limped out of the bathroom. 

Harper wished she didn’t miss the touch so much. 

There was something about Marcia that burned in her chest, that left her dizzy and wanting but unsure as to _what._

They danced around each other, a dangerous game of cat and mouse, close but not quite within range. Harper trod lightly, unsure of what to make of this woman who fixes her with appraising stares that leaves her tripping over her words. 

She does not touch Marcia.

She is afraid of the ache in her chest, of it swallowing her up, of her entire body burning with the desire to be _wanted._

It hurt. 

For all the innuendos and swagger, Harper was hesitant. She kept her finger from ghosting over the back of Marcia’s hand. She kept her leg from tapping gently against the other’s beneath her desk. She averted eye contact time and time again, lest she be caught like a deer in headlights. 

But then Marcia let her in. 

Amusement hidden beneath an exasperated sigh. An appreciative glance when she thought Harper wasn’t looking. A content hum, happy to be in her company. _Happy._

So Harper closed the distance. 

She does not kiss Marcia like a drowning man gasping for air. She does not kiss Marcia with the rage of the Hunt snarling in her ears. It is simply a gentle touch, like Harper has been reaching out for her entire life. 

And the ache does not consume her. It ebbs away, the emptiness in her chest filling with an unfamiliar warmth. It is steady. It is kind. Harper can hold Marcia and pretend. 

She touches her. 

She holds her hand out, eyes searching for permission before cupping the other woman’s cheek. She stands on her tiptoes, tucking her face into her collarbone and laughing at the way Marcia’s hair tickles her nose. 

They dance quietly, Harper’s hands resting gently on her waist, and she finds that she needs nothing more.


End file.
